Fault
by bookfaerie
Summary: This is a one-shot, intended to further draw out Felicity's perspective. What does it feel like to be her when she's young? What would her mind be like? What would that first event be like?


"What are you doing here, Papa?"

"You'll see."

"Ah! No more tickling! Papa, are you going to tell me a story?"

"I will. I will. Be patient, Felicity, dear."

"Papa, what are you doing? Stop. My arm tickles. Now my shoulder."

"Shh. Shh. There's nothing to be scared of. You're my darling Felicity. I'd never do anything to hurt you."

"No. No. Stop! I'll tell Mamma, I—"

"Hush. No one will tell anything, you hear?"

"No! No! Don't touch me—"

"Not another word out of you, you hear? Or else next time..."

"Please, no, not next time! No, _no!_"

"Don't cry, darling. Now I shall tell you a story."

"I don't _want_ a story! Stop!"

"I...will tell you a story...whether you like it...or not. Now...there was a girl, you hear? She was a girl...just like you...Felicity."

_"No! Get out, I don't want you!"_

"And...that girl...like so many other girls... She was...brave, yes. But...not brave...enough to...let her Papa in her...room."

"Ah! _Aaaa! No! It hurts!" _

"And now... She had...no one...to tell... Save...for the...fact...that he had...been there. He...sprinkled...fairy dust...on the naughty...child. And...she wept...out of regret. She...made...him do it. She was...naughty. There...was no one...to blame...but for her...alone."

"_Please. No._"

"It was her...own fault."

"_No. No._"

"Yes...it was..."

"_No_, Papa..."

"No one...to blame...but herself... You hear?"

"Felicity, do you hear?"

"Well... I shall be back tomorrow."

"_No..._"

"I shall... Don't be...frightened...you hear?"

_"She was naughty. No, no. She wept. Regret. No one to blame...but for her alone."_

_There is only a ghost of a girl. She sits and weeps past midnight. In society, she is a ghost of a girl as well, ethereal, beautiful, admired by all. No one knows how her cheeks burn. _

_No one knows her sick pleasure of being caressed by a man she does not love, only pretends to. When she feels Him inside her, she is torn apart, raw. And when she knows enough to not scream, it hurts more than what He does to her. She cannot tell anyone. Who would believe her? _

_He leaves her without anything, only her bruised, aching, raw self. _

_What happened to that image with the crisp smell of the sea, the comforting, yeasty smell of the buns He used to bring to her? _

_She trembles, not only because of The Touch. No. It doesn't bother her anymore, not as much. She used to vomit at the end, but she only endures now. That is not to say that she entirely enjoys It. _

_Maybe if she is ugly, if she alters her appearance, He might not haunt her in her dreams. But no. She cares too much of her appearance to do so. Something inside her hungers for acceptance, for something to fill this emptiness that is always there, even when He is with her. Even when He touches her, even when He pushes his way inside her._

_She gathers a plethora of acquaintances, of suitors, of approvals. His approbation might be worth more to her then. Anything to make Him proud. Anything to alter His image of her. She was so beautiful, so wicked, she made Him do It. And He does it still, night after night. What is enough to have him love her? _

_She forms a shell around her true self. Around her, they only see a glossy, admired, successful, brash, beautiful, wealthy, sensuous girl. A girl whose alabaster face, her pale arching brows, her full lips, and her sparkling blue-gray eyes are accepted, loved. _

_And all the angles of her face are sharp, as sharp as possible to hurt. Every word is dagger-like in wit, in sting, in aches. It is lucky that she is clever, her mind eager. She must be good at everything, she must be a favorite of everyone. She must be at the top, for only then does it satisfy her craving. And even that is not enough. What she has acquired is empty, nothing more palpable than vapor. What is palpable, she does not want to remember. She does not want to touch. She does not, and does not want to, understand. _

_And it is always her, her beauty, her demeanor, her moods, her temperament, her attitude, that causes It. _

_Why always her? But it is her._

_Only one thing on her mind after. _

_It is her fault alone._


End file.
